Page 14 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Barf.

But I wasn’t here for content. I was here to disappear.

To lay low. Be nobody. A woman in a rental car with a suitcase full of overpriced sweaters and a completely destroyed public image.

Lucy had promised her cabin was the perfect place to hide.

“Remote but cozy. You’ll be safe. Take it. Regroup. Breathe. I won’t be long.”

So I tried to breathe. In through the nose, out through the self-doubt. It didn’t help much.

When I finally spotted the cabin—nestled between two giant evergreens like it had been carved out of a Pinterest board—I actually sighed. A dramatic, full-body sigh.

My shoulders dropped. My jaw unclenched. It felt as if I could finally let go.

That feeling lasted about thirty seconds.

I killed the engine, grabbed my suitcase from the back seat, and climbed the porch steps, already dreaming of hot tea and a nap that lasted through the apocalypse. I pushed open the front door…

And stepped straight into a puddle.

“What the hell.” I whispered.

It smelled like wet wood and mold. The air was heavy, damp, and freezing. And when I took another step, my boot actually splashed.

The whole cabin was flooded.

The living room rug was soaked. Water clung to the baseboards. And somewhere behind the kitchen wall, I heard a slow, steady drip like the universe was mocking me in Morse code.

I dropped my suitcase and yanked my phone out of my pocket.

No bars.

No Wi-Fi.

No Lucy.

I stood there for a long moment, heart hammering, trying not to freak out. But the storm outside was picking up, the snow falling heavier now, wind howling through the trees like something out of a horror movie.

Vise-like panic set in.

I wasn’t cut out for this. I didn’t do plumbing or mountain storms or whatever the hell was happening under that sink.

I was good at hotel-room service and PR statements, and making people believe I was fine even when I was falling apart.

This? This was real.

And I didn’t know what the hell to do with real.

I wandered through the cabin like maybe I was wrong, like maybe I was overreacting and the place wasn’t actually waterlogged.

But no, the kitchen floor was slick, the pipe under the sink was still leaking, and the air was cold enough to see my breath.

I found a mostly dry corner near the fireplace and sat down, hugging my knees to my chest.

This wasn’t peace. This wasn’t healing.

This was a soggy, freezing disaster with no cell service and zero backup plan.

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